


But I Wish It Was True

by Ideal_Flower



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 08:15:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12907887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ideal_Flower/pseuds/Ideal_Flower
Summary: The first time it happened, he was hit with white hot shame. But there was no bullet, no gunshot, no shattering of golden hair and spray of brain and blood and guilt on the wall, on the side of his face. Just her mouth on him, his hand on her, his fingers tangled through the cornsilk strands at the nape of her neck.





	But I Wish It Was True

The first time it happened, he was hit with white hot shame. But there was no bullet, no gunshot, no shattering of golden hair and spray of brain and blood and guilt on the wall, on the side of his face. Just her mouth on him, his hand on her, his fingers tangled through the cornsilk strands at the nape of her neck. 

Her hair smelled different. Of grass and air and a spice he couldn’t quite name.

_But how would he know what Karen’s hair smelled of?_

Her clothes felt different. Not carefully pressed cotton that was tight with laundry starch, but smooth satin that slipped through his fingers when he went to grab it. It wasn’t a white dress with blue flowers, but black lace and silk against pale skin - pale skin with dark freckles, light hair, light eyes, light fingernails. 

The time was different.

_What time is it?_

_It’s 8:30._

His laugh was the same. 

_You needed your sleep._

_Yeah._

The conversation was different. Non-existent. She didn’t stand up, pull away, get her head blown open by a .22. He didn’t feel her hot blood hit the backs of his eyelids. She kissed him - mouth closed, then open, his hand sliding around her neck, holding her there, in place against him. 

The kiss was different. Wetter. Insistent and heavy, and he couldn’t tell which one of them was more desperate. He rolled her over onto her back, his tongue on her teeth, her lips, down the front of her throat. One hand in that smooth, smooth hair, the other between her legs, her thighs pressing together, clamping his wrist tightly. The pressure reminded him of something. His stomach tensed, and he felt her quiver. He wasn’t sure where her clothing had gone. When he had removed her of it. All he knew was that she was opening her legs, guided by his own knee, her nails dug into his back, and her mouth sighing open as he pushed his hips forward into her. 

His eyes flew open with a start, his heart hammering beneath his ribs, his thighs and groin and stomach aching painfully. The room was dark, nearly quiet except for his harsh breath, the night outside - cars driving through rain, honking, the pedestrian crossings, beeping. _Fuck._ He inhaled shakily, raising a hand and scrubbing his palm down over his wet face, through his damp beard. He was covered in sweat. The guilt stayed. 

Drawing his gaze from the ceiling, he blinked in confusion around the room, disoriented by the dream. He reached back, finding a headboard that wasn’t his, his legs bare beneath sheets that he didn’t buy, but that he had kicked off in the heat. 

“Hey.” 

For a fleeting second, he nearly jumped from the bed, nearly grabbed a revolver that he knew would be stashed in the nightstand drawer - if this were _his_ room. But it wasn’t his room, and his memories fell back all at once, sobering and yet relieving. Karen reached for him, concern etched on her features, even in the darkness he could see the furrow of her eyes, the shine of her hair from the city din outside. She placed her palms on either side of his face and squeezed, bringing him back to the present. 

“Okay?” she asked softly. She must feel him - she was practically in his lap as she dragged herself from where she had lain beside him. She wasn’t shy about it, pressing herself against his chest, his erection trapped between them, painful along the crease of his hip. 

When he didn’t reply, she jerked his gaze to hers, forcing their eyes to meet. Somehow she knew. Was he obvious, or was she just as observant as he often gave her credit for? Could she sense the difference in this dream, in this betrayal? A betrayal of the past, but of also the present. His tongue felt thick with shame and he couldn’t bring himself to speak. 

Karen pressed her forehead to his. He could taste her breath, smell her hair. Cinnamon. 

“It’s not,” she whispered. “Whatever it is, you’re wrong.” There was a pause and he lifted a hand to her neck, his palm finding that cup along her jaw, his fingers digging through the back of her skull and into her hair. “Okay?”

He let out a long breath, one he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Karen couldn’t speak for Maria, for his dead wife, for the way she had died and the smell of a bullet ripping through her skull. But Maria couldn’t speak either. And so all he had left was the woman in front of him, the woman who had saved him and even loved him, though he had long ago deemed himself unworthy of it. Of anything. He tried to ignore the agony he still felt in his chest, but when he answered, it didn’t quite feel like a lie. And so he took what he could.

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh. I resisted this for SO LONG but I couldn't get it out of my head.


End file.
